


Backscratchers

by MixBerkaan



Category: Fairy Tail
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff, M/M, stingue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-06 00:46:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4201464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MixBerkaan/pseuds/MixBerkaan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Let it be known that, on a college campus, anything and nothing can be expected. A group of people can walk around in robes and foam swords and no one bats an eye. Someone can build a snowman in the arms of the statue of the school mascot, and people will walk by without a second glance. A complete stranger can run up begging for his back scratched, and Rogue can't help but comply.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Backscratchers

**Author's Note:**

> For my friend Emi, whose birthday was over a month ago (oops). Also posted on tumblr at http://natsusleftwenis.tumblr.com/post/122153472949/backscratchers. Just a fluffy little one-shot of one of her favorite ships. Yes, just about anything can happen at college and no one cares. No, I have not had a stranger ask me for a back scratch but it wouldn't surprise me if it happened.

“For the love of all that is holy, you’ve gotta help me!”

Rogue balked from the stranger who suddenly invaded his personal bubble, but, unfortunately, the wall at his back didn’t offer much in the way of escape. Fighting the flash of irritation that welled up, Rogue looked up from his phone, and found himself debating whether or not to run for the hills. He wasn’t the best at talking to people, and for god’s sake, surely there was some law against being that attractive?

“Wh-what?” he stuttered, inwardly cursing the anxiety that clearly chose the worst possible moment to rear its ugly face.

“I need your help!” the blond before him said, before whirling to show his back, “There, right there! I’ve got this itch right between my shoulderblades. Please scratch it!” the boy begged.

Rogue stared in sheer disbelief at the thin t-shirt that left little to the imagination. Muscles. That must be what muscles look like. In spite of his firmly held convictions that stroking random strangers was creepy and a not-okay thing to do, he found himself fighting to urge to do just that---until, that is, he realized with reluctant glee  that was basically what this kid was asking him to do.

With a trembling hand, Rogue ghosted his fingers over the blond’s spine, but recoiled as he jumped and laughed.

“It’s an itch, you know,” the stranger said over his shoulder, “It doesn’t do too much if you just tickle me further.”

Oh how Rogue wanted to reply with some kind of sassy comment like they did in the movies. To charm and to make others laugh at his witticisms. Alas, he could only give a absentminded nod and try again.

The sigh of relief from the boy almost scared him away again, but he managed to keep scratching through sheer force of will.

It seemed eons before the blond finally turned, giving a grin that Rogue could have sworn sparkled like a Disney film. “Thanks, man, I owe you one. Have you had lunch yet? Come on, I’ll treat ya!”

Rogue stared, having gone full deer-in-headlights.

“N-no I haven’t had l-lunch yet,” he answered. The entire situation was bizarre.

“Awesome! I’m Sting, by the way,” Stingsaid before grabbing Rogue’s wrist and dragging him into the nearby food court. “What’dya want? Pick anything! I happen to be in love with the sweet and sour chicken at Noodle Express,” he announced before pulling Rogue after him to the very counter, seemingly reluctant to release the brunette's wrist. It was probably a good idea, too, since Rogue would likely have bolted if Stinge gave him a chance to gain his bearings.

“Hello, what can I get for you? The usual?” a voice announced.

Peeking around Sting, Rogue saw a chirpy girl working the counter, Emi, if her name tag wasn’t lying.

Without avail, Sting grinned and nodded. “Yep, and whatever he wants,” he said, pulling Rogue out from behind his back. It looked like Sting was a frequent customer.

Lowering his eyes so he wouldn’t have to make eye contact, Rogue shrugged and quietly ordered the same as Sting.

“Great! Your order is forty-seven, we’ll have those right out for you!”

Sting stepped back to join the waiting throng of people milling about the middle of the court.

Rogue shifted anxiously from foot to foot. Sting seemed to be satisfied in the silence that had fallen between them, but to Rogue, it was a looming reminder of his inability to communicate: of the anxiety that made it near impossible for him to make friends. With a revelation, Rogue realized that he really wanted to be friends with this Sting, or at least try to be at any rate, and he didn’t want his anxiety to be the reason it never happened.

Glaring down at his feet, Rogue fished for something, anything to say, but only one question came to his mind. He could feel the words start to stick in his throat and it was at least a full minute before he worked up the strength to spit the words out.

“Is Sting actually your name?” he finally said, a little louder than he had intended. Blushing furiously, Rogue looked up long enough to see Sting turn his head, before he gazed once more upon his worn sneakers.

A warm laugh filled his ears, and, as Rogue looked up, he was greeted with another one of those too-bright grins.

“Nah, sorry. I can guess it’s a bit weird. I have a bit of an obsession with Sting. You know, the singer? Anyways, back in high school, it got to the point where my friends started calling me Sting as a joke, and the nickname just sort of stuck. You’re Rogue, right? We have that history class together. I sit a couple rows behind you.”

Rogue was shocked. He had a class with someone this good looking for nearly half a semester and hadn’t realized? “I-I, uh. Sorry, I didn’t notice you.” He guessed that’s what he got for retreating to his phone at every possible opportunity.

Sting’s smile widened and he waved it off, “Don’t worry about it. You always look super interested in whatever you’re reading. I wouldn’t want to take you away from that.”

“Forty-Seven!” a voice called over the general clamor, suddenly bringing Rogue back to his location. He blinked in surprise when he realized that, for a few short moments, his anxiety seemed to have disappeared. It had been just like talking to someone online, where he didn’t have to worry about his stutter appearing.

“Wait right here, I’ll grab our food.” Sting said, before finally releasing Rogue’s hand and darting forward.

For the first time since meeting Sting, Rogue felt a small smile creep up on his face, a sensation that was quite alien surrounded by this many people. Maybe this whole communication thing could actually work if it was with Sting.

 

Three years later, Rogue woke up in the middle of the night with a groan. His cat was scratching at the door, wanting to be let inside and letting him know by meowing loud enough to wake the dead- or him, in this case. Sighing, Rogue climbed out of bed and opened the bedroom door, letting Frosch zip through the gap and jump on the mattress, waiting for him to come lay back down.

Rolling his eyes, Rogue walked back to bed, incapable of staying mad at the cat for too long. Climbing under the covers, he settled down, and was greeted by warm arms that pulled him into their embrace.

Closing his eyes, Rogue sighed happily and snuggled further into Sting’s chest, Frosch now happily curled in the crook of his legs. His anxiety was far from gone, but moments like this had made it significantly easier to manage in the past few years, and all because some idiot needed his back scratched. 


End file.
